


A Difference in Rhythm

by pastel_poisons



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Drunken sex, First gay experience, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major Spoilers, Masturbation, Past Domestic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7599748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastel_poisons/pseuds/pastel_poisons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a botched one night stand, drunken nights and sad thoughts are all Rusty Galloway has left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Difference in Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon Galloway as a closeted gay man.  
> Here's the fic nobody wanted, about one of the most disgusting men in the game. 
> 
> Enjoy.

As Galloway lowers himself on the bed, the piece of furniture creaks.

In his hand, a magazine. The pages were poorly glued together. The title, scrawled on the cover in looping letters. This is one of the many underground, dirty books he managed to swipe off his exes. He has quite a collection.

His collection would be bigger, though, had his second wife not been such a bitch.

 

 

 _Cindy’s nails dug into the back of his_ _neck_ _._ _Rusty_ _could have swor_ _n_ _he’d be picking the polish out of the scratches for weeks!_

 _“_ _Listen, you faggot_ _,” she began,_ _“I don’t care what gets your rocks off,_ _but_ _I won’t tolerate you stealing from me! Give me my_ _magazines_ _, and_ _your secret won’t find itself in every ear in Los Angeles!”_

_“Alright! They’re in the shoebox. Next to the bed,” he confessed._

_She released him. “Nice hiding spot. Real original.” She walked into the hallway._

_From the bedroom, she added, “And lose some weight, will you! I shouldn’t be able to grab you by the scruff like that!” She emerged, with a handful of magazines. “It’s fucking disgusting!”_

 

 

The magazine – more a pile of loosely connected papers – falls to the floorboards. Rusty has memories better than this second hand porn. He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing himself.

 

 

_Fuck! He’d been tight!_

_“Never done this before?” Rusty laughed._

_“And you have?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_There’s silence._

_The room was dark, and Rusty’s head was still dizzy from too much to drink, but he noticed the shock that crept into Cole’s expression._

_“What? I’m not popping your cherry. If I was, you and Marie have some explain-”_

_He cringed. His body, tense. “Don’t mention her.”_

_“Listen, Cole. I appreciate this nice grip, but you have to relax.”_

 

 

Rusty sucks in a breath at the memory. He really shouldn’t have done that, fucked Phelps. The guy was drunk off his ass.

 

 

 _Rusty pulled out. “Come on._ _Move over,”_ _he grunted._ _Awkwardly, they repositioned._ _Galloway on his back, with thick thighs on either side of Phelps._ _“_ _You know, I always preferred getting porked,_ _”_ _he said._ _His voice_ _was_ _low,_ _and stunk of alcohol._

 _“_ _If you keep talking like that, I’m going to leave.”_

_“Fair enough.”_

 

 

Rusty sucks on his fingers. Pulling the digits out, he looks them over. Nicely coated with spit, slick. They slide in so easy.

 

 

 _His body_ _flush against Galloway’s soft midsection,_ _Cole’s movements were mechanical. In-and-out._ _He_ _refused to_ _look a_ _t the other man. Their gaze_ _s_ _did not meet once._ _His_ _eyes glued to something just beside_ _Rusty’s_ _head._

 _Thrusts stutter_ _ed_ _as_ _Cole_ _reached his climax._

 

 

Rusty’s chest aches.

 

 

_Sun shone through blinds, casting repetitive shadows over the two men._

_Cole was the first to_ _wake_ _, pushing crumpled sheets off their bodies._ _He s_ _at_ _up._ _H_ _e wince_ _d. Eyes flitted downward, and widened_ _as_ _they landed on the dried semen on his_ _own_ _stomach._

 _God!_ _Rusty’s_ _head hurt._ _He imagined Phelps felt similar._

_“Hey,” the older man greeted._

_Without a word, Cole collected his clothes. They were wrinkled. Sticky and stained where he’d spilled alcohol on himself. Quickly, he pulled them on._

_“Don’t want anything to eat? I was thinking ham, home fries._ _All drenched in_ _salt pork.”_

_“No.” The answer was curt._

_“Dammit, Cole-” It was too early for this.  
“Phelps,” he corrected._

_“Phelps. One drunken night won’t make you gay.”_

_The other man ignored him, leaving immediately._

 

 

Galloway swallowed thickly.

 

 

 _Cole_ _was_ _promoted soon after. Not that Rusty_ _minded much._ _This way, at least,_ _sitting in a hot car with a botched one night stand_ _wouldn’t be a daily occurrence._

_Galloway stole glances, often regretting them. Nearly losing his lunch whenever he saw Cole with Earle. Rusty’s palms would sweat, as he caught inevitable glimpses of Roy being too close, too touchy, with Cole. The douche would even flash Rusty a wink._

 

 

 

Rusty’s heart sinks. It finally hit him. “Fuck! The asshole knew,” he groans.

 

 

 

 _Rusty’s breakfast sat_ _uneaten_ _, cold._

 _When he’d woken up, the_ _morning_ _felt like_ _always_ _: shitty._ _Galloway_ _was sure_ _the day would play out identical_ _ly_ _to_ _the_ _others. He figured he’d stuff himself, go to work, go home, get drunk._

_Still, a difference in rhythm found its way onto his table. A stack of folded white papers. Pounded in black ink, it read, “Phoney American hero betrayed his wife. Cole Phelps caught in bed with the enemy. Phelps, demoted.”_

_She’d been German, a junkie too. Everything that made a villain._

 

 

Galloway’s hand, unmoving. He looks down. “Shit. Went soft.” He releases the grip on his flaccid cock, wiping the palm on his thigh.

He leans over, flicking off the light. In the dark, Rusty hears the clatter of bottles. The strong smell of booze fills the room.

“I’m not dealing with that now,” he barks to himself.

Moonlight and heat slips in through the window, open slightly. Besides Galloway’s heavy breathing, and the heartbeat pounding in his ears, the only sound is cars driving by.

 

 

 _Memory cuts to_ _the_ _shattered glass plate, and its contents, lay_ _ing_ _scattered on the floor._

 _Cole was on the front page again. This time, the paper praised him_ _as a hero._

_Rusty didn’t need to read the article to know how public opinion could change so fast. He’d seen it before. People want your head, then are willing to turn a blind eye towards your imperfections once that rigor mortis sets in._

 

 

Galloway squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will away the thoughts. Every night, the scene played out in his head. Haunting him like a ghost.

There’s a sniffle. “Fuck, Cole.” He rubs away the tears. “Fuck!”

**Author's Note:**

> AO3 botched the formatting a little bit. So, if you see weird spaces while reading this, please forgive. It ain't my fault, I swear.


End file.
